BY THE TIME I got home that evening, I had too much to tell Joe and hoped I could stay awake long enough to tell him. He was in the kitchen, wearing running shorts and a T-shirt, what he wore when he went for a run with Martha. He was holding a wineglass, and from the scrumptious smell of garlic and oregano, it seemed he’d cooked dinner, too.

  But the look on Joe’s face stopped me before I could reach him.

  “Joe, I was at the hospital all night -”

  “Jacobi told me. If I hadn’t found wet footsteps on the bathmat this morning, I wouldn’t have even known you’d been home.”

  “You were sleeping, Joe, and I only had a few minutes. And is this a house rule? That I have to check in?” I said.

  “You call it checking in. I call it being thoughtful. Thinking of me and that I might worry about you.”

  I hadn’t called him. Why hadn’t I called?

  “I’m drinking merlot,” he said.

  Joe and I rarely fought, and I got that sickening gut-feel that told me that I was in the wrong.

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “You’re totally right, Joe. I should have let you know where I was.” I walked over to him, put my arms around his waist - but he pulled away from me.

  “No flirting, Blondie. I’m steamed.”

  He handed me a glass of wine and I took it, saying, “Joe, I said I’m sorry, and I am!”

  “You know what?” he said. Martha whimpered and trotted out of the room. “I saw more of you when I lived in DC.”

  “Joe, that’s not true.”

  “So, I’m going to ask you flat out, Lindsay. One question. And I want the truth.”

  I thought, No, please, please don’t ask me if I really want to marry you, please don’t. I’m not ready. I looked into the storm raging in Joe’s deep blue eyes.

  “I want to know about you and Conkli............